


Scent Memory

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, He cares but sometimes is still a dick, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, It's mostly focused on the aftermath and the history of trauma, John and Anthea play small parts its mostly the brothers, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Siblings, Rape Aftermath, Shared Trauma, Sherlock Being Sherlock, suicide ideation, that takes place in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29346141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mycroft's world is shattered again. He goes to his brother to show him the pieces.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35
Collections: Anonymous





	Scent Memory

Mycroft couldn’t afford to think while it was happening. He was outside himself, trying to neatly compartmentalize in real time like M16 had trained him to. It was the only way to survive the torture one might be subjected to at work; Separate it, file it away as labeled sensations until it felt like it wasn’t all happening to you at once - like it wasn’t happening to you at all. He used his brain to do that instead of form words because if he thought while it was happening he’d have to acknowledge it was happening to him. He staved off that knowledge like a man locking himself in a room on the Titanic. He could hear the screams, the water, but the door was closed and he refused to look down at the floor. No - he couldn’t deal with it _happening_ to him. He would try to deal with it as something that had _happened_ to him. 

Though he wasn’t thinking of words he could hear himself making noises distantly. He was glad (in the way people are glad to hear that their loved ones ‘didn’t suffer’ when murdered) that the drugs were muddling everything and that he’d been partially gagged by something. He wouldn’t have to remember what he was saying later. The man’s words were filed away though, into a transcript he was forming of the event.

**Classified Assailant:** You look better like this...like it?  
 **Mycroft:** (unintelligible)  
 **Classified A:** Know you do...Tell (classified) that this is what she gets when she tries to fuck me over - I fuck her right back.   
**Mycroft:** (classified)   
**Classified A:** Are you begging now?...Hm, got shy?   
**Mycroft:** (unintelligible)  
 **Classified A:** I’ve already made it. Mouthy, huh? Jesus. Maybe she sent you here to- (unintelligible)

The car was clean - rented. It’d been sprayed with that artificial ‘new car’ smell between riders. The driver was behind tinted glass and hadn’t responded to any noise thus far so he was either still unaware via sound proofing, wearing an earpiece to intentionally keep him unaware of certain dealings (Mycroft’s own drivers were occasionally instructed to do the same) or he was aware and planned to do nothing about the situation. Mycroft tried to inhale as much of the scent of the car as he could so he didn’t smell anything else. He labeled the other sensations as they came to him, snatched them and filed them away before he could fully process them. It was adding up. There would be a lot to process later if he survived the encounter.

Time passed slowly. The dignitary had stopped talking and was grunting now. Mycroft made a list of who to call as the sensations came faster, hoping it was ending. The car was driving somewhere, it didn’t matter where, he’d call his own car to come get him. The thought that it was ending made it harder to keep labeling and filing, it made his heart pound with the want to escape. It made him form fragments of thoughts that he quickly tried to dismantle.

Time passed slowly and then all at once. The dignitary whispered something in his ear that he immediately shoved to the back of the file cabinet, wishing he could delete it entirely like his brother could. Thinking of his brother made his face scrunch up so he cleared that at least from his mind. The dignitary kept him bound and half-undressed for a while longer. Half an hour longer, Mycroft counted the minutes. He gave his driver a location and as the car slowed down he released Mycroft’s arms and legs, pulling the gag from his mouth and placing it in a suitcase. Mycroft didn’t move, not wanting the other man to see him massage his aching wrists or try the locked door. He didn’t move until the car stopped and the locks popped open.

“Give your superiors my regards.” The dignitary said, opening the door for Mycroft who found himself outside shortly after. The car drove away. Mycroft stared into space before pulling out his mobile. He tried to read his contact list but the letters swam. 

_This is not helping._ He thought, picking the one at the top and hearing Anthea’s voice. _I need to do my job._ He said something to her in a voice that betrayed nothing and she said she’d send a car.

The car had that new car smell.  
He rolled the windows down.  
He hadn’t come back into himself yet.  
It was cold.

“Where to, sir?” Said his driver, same driver, different cars. Mycroft felt himself relax a bit at his voice even though he didn’t know his name. It broke him out of whatever fugue he was in for just a moment. He needed to call Anthea again, he needed to report back to his superiors, he needed to work.

“221B.” He said, looking out the window at where he’d been standing before. It felt like he was still there. It felt like he was still in the car.

There was a memory somewhere, of their old family home in june. The air is heavy, the body on top of him is heavy. It’s quiet. It’s eerie not having any concrete evidence of the event, just the reel elusive in his mind. He thinks the man might be a colleague of his mother’s. He remembers his face like a damaged watercolor painting, a swirl of flesh color and a voice that fades into the background noise. The cicadas buzz, the birds chirp, the bed creaks softly. Mycroft is looking at the ceiling and then his head is turned _“Don’t look at me, ok?”_ and he is looking out into the hall through a crack in the door. Then he is looking at a single blue eye.

Sherlock’s building was run down in a way that their mother might call ‘charming’ through her teeth. Mycroft walked up the steps, buzzing the intercom of 221B and waiting for the reply. When none came he buzzed again, and again, until there was an answer on the eighth ring.  
“Who is it?” John asked, sounding startled and groggy. Mycroft checked his phone, it was two in the morning.

“Mycroft Holmes.” He answered. A pause.  
“Right, come in.” Sherlock’s apartment was messy as always but didn’t smell of chemicals like the last time Mycroft had been inside it. John was setting a kettle on the stove and Sherlock was sitting on the living room floor, sorting different papers. 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, joining his brother but refusing to sit or bend. Sherlock peered up at him just as Mycroft peered down before returning to his work. 

“Work.” He said. The stove clicked as a flame roared to life. Mycroft thought about how late it was. He wondered if Sherlock was tired. He’d been more tired recently - since the doctor moved in with him. He suspected his brother might be on the cusp of a sleep schedule. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft examined the papers. The same phrase was written out on all of them in different ink. It wasn’t Sherlock’s handwriting or the doctor’s so he assumed it was a forgery on one of their parts. Perhaps to test how the different inks dried. Sherlock leaned forward to block his view petulantly. Mycroft sighed, bringing his gaze up to the mantelpiece. There were pictures up there - he suspected the doctor had something to do with it. Sherlock’s living spaces had never felt like more than storage space before him.

“I want for nothing.” Mycroft said. Sherlock rolled his eyes but paused when he noticed Mycroft’s face look stricken for a moment before he schooled it again. Sherlock stared. He’d never been able to read Mycroft when he locked himself away like that so he focused on things his brother couldn’t control. He was leaning on his umbrella more than usual, was he hurt? Tired?

“Your clothes are in disarray.” He observed aloud, losing interest in the papers he’d been hiding. “Your hair too, and you’re on some kind of drug.” He stood, watching Mycroft watch him. Mycroft waited, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t want to say it, he just wanted to tell him. He waited. Sherlock grabbed his arm and let his loosened sleeve fall, seeing where his brother had been bound. Mycroft’s arm twitched involuntarily back towards him, pulling itself from Sherlock with such force that both men looked surprised.

“My apologies I-” Mycroft began at the same time as Sherlock said;  
“You’ve been attacked.” The brothers stared. The kettle rang out.  
“Let’s sit down.” John said from the kitchen after a beat, rattling cups in the cupboard. 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and flittering, just like before. Taking in everything. Mycroft felt himself transported again to that contextless room. Sherlock peeking through the crack in the door. Mycroft staring back, wanting to tell him to leave, not to see this. Though a small, secret, selfish, part of him wanted him to. Wanted him to know so Mycroft wouldn’t be alone in his knowledge. Something was taken from both of them then and it felt horrible - and it felt fair.

John placed two mugs of tea in front of Sherlock and Mycroft, heading back to the kitchen to get something stronger for himself. Neither man sat down, Sherlock pacing in front of the unlit fireplace and Mycroft standing, watching him move. John sat down on the couch between them, rubbing his eyes.

“Sherlock-” He began, getting cut off before he could say anything more.  
“If you were attacked on the street your security detail would know, you’d be being taken care of. It was somewhere they couldn’t go, you were alone.” Mycroft remembered seeing Sherlock in the garden after the man had left. He remembered feeling like the world was off-kilter, leaning against a tree, looking up at his brother who was hanging from the branches. He wondered if his own eyes looked as frightened as Sherlock’s did.

“You wouldn’t be stupid enough to send them away without good reason. Were you under threat? No, I’m certain you wouldn’t ever be truly left alone even if you ordered it. So it was an impossibility.” Mycroft remembered the dignitary’s smile. The amber liquid under dim lights, too dark to see, no scent. He should have been more careful. He’d had meetings with him before and nothing had gone wrong. He was petty, sneaky. He wasn’t known for being violent. _There were no signs._ Mycroft thought. _There were signs everywhere._ He thought.

Neither ever told their parents about the man and the man never came back. Mycroft couldn’t remember his face - his voice - his name. He thought about it sometimes, when he woke up with nightmares and his mother would quietly drag her fingers through his hair or his father would read aloud to him in his warm, rumbling voice. In those moments the assault felt real and unreal, pressing and invisible. He was always praised as a smart child - careful, well-behaved. Everytime he thought of telling his parents he felt his gut twist with anxiety. He hadn’t been careful, he hadn’t been smart, he hadn’t been well-behaved. 

The more time passed the more it sunk into him, symptoms becoming The Way He Was. He’d always preferred the door being open hadn’t he? He’d always shied away from his parents’ friends, preferring to stay upstairs or outside with his brother. He’d always had nightmares. He’d always hated the buzz of cicadas. Sherlock was the same way. Becoming more aggressive around strangers, screaming, running, biting. If Mycroft was alone in a room he could be sure that Sherlock would enter loudly once or twice, sweeping around the area before running out again.   
_“Honestly,”_ Mummy would say, sometimes with exasperation and sometimes with fondness. _“You have a guard dog for a brother.”_

Sometimes Sherlock would sneak into his bed without a word, burying himself in his older brother’s side. _“I’m okay, Sherlock. I’m okay.”_ He’d whisper, guilt clawing at his throat. He wished he’d protected him more, he wished that at least one of them could sleep through the night.

“Why wouldn’t you report back to them right away? Why come here? It must be something-” Sherlock paused, back turned to his brother. Neither moved. 

John tilted his head. “...Something?”   
Sherlock turned to face him, expression trying its best to look disinterested. “Boring. He’s come here to annoy me yet again.” 

John frowned, scrunching up his eyebrows. “But-”   
Before John could protest more Mycroft held up a hand to quiet him.

“Doctor Watson, my brother here is making an attempt at delicacy for once in his life. Though I appreciate it, it is misguided. I wouldn’t have come here unless I implicitly trusted the both of you. Along that vein I’m sure I can count on you to treat what I’m about to say with absolute discretion.” Mycroft shot John a freezingly insincere smile that sent chills down the doctor’s spine. 

“Yeah,” John agreed, coughing. “Yeah, of course.” Mycroft felt a distant satisfaction, this was normal. He was in control.

“I was assaulted.” He said, forcing the words to come out smooth. John’s eyes widened as he dropped his mug indelicately onto the table. Sherlock turned away, rushing from the living room to somewhere else in the apartment. Mycroft didn’t turn his head to see where. He felt strange. It felt strange to say. Embarrassing. He hadn’t been careful. 

“Assa-? You mean you were-?” John asked, voice high with disbelief. Mycroft tilted his head and gave him a sharp smile. John shook his head then quickly nodded. “Right, sorry. Processing. Do you want a hospital?” Mycroft didn’t move, pinning John with his eyes. John turned to see where Sherlock was. The sound of a door being slammed rattled the apartment. 

“Sherlock!” John called, jumping over the back of the couch in his hurry to get to the front door. “You tosser, you can’t just-” Mycroft got up and walked over to the window, looking at the street below. He saw himself in front of the building, he saw himself waiting by the road, he saw himself in the car. John and Sherlock’s voices were somewhere outside the apartment, echoing in the stairwell. Mycroft opened the window. It smelled like rain did in the city. Concrete, water, garbage. Had it been raining? 

“Who was it?” Sherlock’s hand spun Mycroft around to face him. The detective’s face was contorted in anger, an incompetent rage that Mycroft found heartbreakingly young. Innocent. He knew his brother would tear the man apart if he found him, that he believed in catching people and justice and a _How dare you?_ kind of love. The kind of love that demanded payback, comeuppance. The kind of love that made a little boy write to his brother every day in college, each letter short and meaning nothing, wanting nothing except a reply to assure him that Mycroft was still there even when he couldn’t follow him into rooms and keep away strangers. 

“Who was it?” Sherlock shouted, face going red at Mycroft’s impassive expression. John tried to take hold of Sherlock’s arm but the detective shook it off violently, keeping his gaze boring into his brother. “Tell me. Now.”

“Sherlock-” John said, trying to keep his voice steady for both brothers.  
“Tell me!” Sherlock shouted again, voice booming seconds after the thunder. Rain came in through the open window as Sherlock took hold of Mycroft’s arms and shook him. 

“Why won’t you tell me? Did he threaten you? Whatever he said it’s _nothing_ Mycroft. He can do _nothing_ compared to me, compared to us. I can find him, I can bring- I can catch...I can make him _pay_ so why…” Sherlock’s grip on Mycroft’s arms tightened and Mycroft forced his breath to remain steady as new car smell came back to his mind. He looked down at his brother whose form began to crumble inward, forehead resting on Mycroft’s chest.

“Why won’t you let me help?” He said, voice trembling with emotion but refusing to break. Mycroft remembered waking up from a nightmare to see Sherlock above him and screaming with everything he had, pushing the boy off the bed and falling off the other side in his haste to escape. Sherlock’s ear-splitting cry brought their mother in and her panicked shouts brought their father. 

_“What’s wrong? Darlings, What’s wrong!?” Their mother asked, picking up the younger boy and trying to rock him in her arms despite him being a touch too old for it. Sherlock had almost told them then, Mycroft knew, he could see it as he opened his mouth._

_“Mycroft’s-” Sherlock began and Mycroft thought about his parents knowing. Thought about how broken they’d know he was and how stupid they’d think him for keeping it from them - for letting to happen? Letting it? He thought about them calling the man - he thought about court dates and records and about how even months after he still felt that same fearguiltshame he’d felt that day with the cicadas and all that towered in his mind, impossibly large for him to bare - and he began to cry._

_Sherlock had never seen him cry before. Even their parents were shocked into silence before jumping to comfort him. Mycroft caught his brother’s eye as their parents’ placations and questions faded into noise and saw that same fear reflected in them. Wide, blue, helpless eyes._

“Sherlock, leave him alone!” John commanded, finally separating the two men. He took a deep breath as Sherlock curled in on himself, leaning against the wall with his back to them. Mycroft looked out the window. 

“If you can’t say - or won’t say, that’s fine. We _aren’t_ going to force you.” He said in his army doctor voice, glaring at Sherlock over his shoulder before turning back to Mycroft. “But I have to insist you get medical treatment.”

“I’ve already informed Anthea of the situation.” Mycroft lied. The more he talked about it the less real the situation became. He watched himself answer John’s quiet questions, smiling blandly, hands tightly gripping each other. He’d lost his umbrella somewhere, perhaps it’d been thrown out the window under assumption that it was a weapon. It would have been. He texted Anthea without looking at his phone, telling her to standby. Something in him seized and he felt frustration rise to his chest. He would _not_ develop a phobia of cars.

“Mycroft?” John asked, watching the elder Holmes startle. Sherlock had moved to the front door, leaning against it, observing the scene. John tried to ignore him, keeping his focus on Mycroft. He looked like a man on the verge of falling apart when he wasn’t trying his hardest not to. John decided that that piece of information would likely send Mycroft straight to the door. Best he kept it to himself. The other man didn’t need that right now.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, blinking. He needed to report back. He needed to go to the hospital, he needed to do a kit and tell his superiors and inform Anthea and he’d need to take time off and make threats and ensure that the right people knew the right amount and-

“It’s fine to not be okay, you know? I get that you’re The government and whatnot but you’re also a person. Who’s been hurt.” John thought about Sherlock’s reaction. He wasn’t a genius. He didn’t need to be one, he was a doctor. He was Sherlock’s friend. He knew him. “Maybe not the first time either.”

“I know it’s fine, Dr.Watson.” Mycroft said, with half the bite he intended the words to have. His hands were shaking. The room was growing cold. The pain was bleeding back into him as the drugs wore off. For a brief moment he understood his brother’s habit. He’d take anything to be numb again - just a bit longer, until everything was dealt with and he was alone. Why had he even come here?

“A lot of victims-”  
“I am _not_ a victim.” Mycroft hissed. John raised his hands in apology, nodding. “I made an idiotic mistake. I wasn’t careful enough, it _won’t_ happen again.” His voice broke. The tips of his fingers went white as he gripped his hands together. Keeping it together. Keeping it together.

When he was young he’d tried so hard to imagine how he’d looked to the man. He’d researched warning signs, he’d taken self defense classes, he’d laid awake in bed and heard that voice grunting _don’t look at me._ What kind of face had he been making? 

After dinner he’d fallen into the dignitary’s arms, the world suddenly spinning wildly as language escaped him. He’d lost his umbrella then - he remembered, he’d dropped it to grab hold of the man’s arm. _“Had a little too much to drink, I think.”_ He’d said, hustling him into the car. If he’d been more observant - if he’d picked a different meeting place - if he’d brought Anthea with him - if he’d kept hold of his umbrella - if he’d - if he’d - ifhe’d-

Sherlock’s arms were around him.  
Sherlock’s body was draped over his back, warm from the layers of clothing he was wearing.  
Mycroft hadn’t realized he was so cold.  
“I’m sorry Myc.” Sherlock whispered, quiet enough to deny it. Mycroft reached up and squeezed his hand. He was sitting down, when had he sat down? Perhaps that was attributing to the pain. 

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Mycroft said, finding that his voice trembled. He hated the sound. He looked up to try to see the ceiling but Sherlock’s curls were in the way. He closed his eyes.

“I should have protected you.” Sherlock said, voice low, heavy with regret. “I should have opened that damn door. I shouldn’t have run away.” He spat out a laugh. “I wouldn’t blame you for hating-”

“I could never hate you.” Mycroft interrupted, voice brooking no argument. “Why on earth would I hate you? I’m the one who should have-” He coughed, finding the words caught in his throat. “I’m the one who should have-” But it was suddenly unclear what he should have done, even after years of remembering and wishing and what-ifs. A tear rolled down his cheek and he looked down at the water gathering in puddles on the floor. 

Mycroft bent over, letting go of Sherlock’s hand to bring both of his to his own face. He didn’t make a noise as he sobbed. Only his posture and the occasional wet intake of breath indicated he was crying at all.

John closed the window halfway and gave Sherlock a look. Sherlock nodded and the doctor hurried off to his own bedroom, leaving the brothers in peace. Sherlock looked at his older brother for a minute, fighting against his own urge to leave. Fighting against the voice in his head that screamed _How dare you try and act the hero? You’re a coward. You failed._ He sat down on the couch opposite the chair Mycroft was sitting in and listened to his brother cry.

It brought him back to when he was eleven and sitting outside Mycroft’s room. 

_He was holding a book of butterflies he’d found in their father’s office and wanted his brother to look over them with him. There was a party downstairs. The clinking of glasses and mumbling chatter was soft, it rumbled beneath Sherlock’s feet. Far away but integral._

_One of their parents’ friends had caught the brothers not-hiding in the sun room and started a conversation. He was drunk and rambling, complimenting the two of them and berating his own children. Sherlock had been annoyed but when he looked over to his brother he saw that he was terrified. The cicadas droned._

_“Oh, there you are Igor.” Their father said, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving the boys a playful look that was returned by neither of them. Mycroft was staring out the window and Sherlock was staring at the man, trying to recall. Was it The Man? Was it The Man? His face was growing red._

_“You have some beautiful boys here!” Igor said, happy to be led away. “Two geniuses. Me? I have four and not one of ‘em even gets a B average!”_

_As soon as their father and the man had left Mycroft shot out of his chair, knocking over a flower pot which shattered across the marble floor. There were confused gasps and shrieks from the guests nearby. “What happened?” and “Is anyone hurt?” floated above the boys as they ran, Sherlock desperately trying to keep pace with his brother._

_Mycroft slammed his door as soon as he was inside and Sherlock ran into it. The shock of the rejection and the pain blossoming across his nose made his eyes sting. He was still holding the book. He kept holding it, bringing it to his chest as Mycroft’s sobs came to him - muffled by the door._

_Sherlock steeled himself, opening the wooden door and creeping into his brother’s room. He’d always liked it in there - it was all earthy browns and oranges and greens. Seeing Mycroft’s body sprawled across the bed felt wrong. Wrong in a way that made him ill._

_“Mycroft?” He asked, voice small as he felt. “Was it him?”  
Mycroft didn’t respond except to turn so his back was facing his little brother. He was covering his mouth then - muffling his sobs with his hands now that the door wasn’t there. Sherlock took another step closer. _

_“Was it? Was it him?” Mycroft didn’t respond and Sherlock’s heart began to race. He felt dizzy and hot, bile rose in his throat. He threw the book at the wall above his brother and watched him curl up into himself. He stomped his foot._

_“Was it him!?” He screamed, running up to Mycroft’s bed and tugging on his leg. “Was it him!?” He kept screaming, feeling out of his mind as he crawled up beside his brother. He couldn’t see his face and for some reason it felt like the most important thing in the world at that moment. He reached out and grabbed Mycroft’s wrists, trying to pull them away. Mycroft fought back, the two wrestling and screaming and inconsolable until they both hit the floor._

_Sherlock was silent for a moment before he began to cry - the wail of a child much younger than he was. It was one long exhale, heightening in pitch by the second. He’d felt utterly useless, less than nothing. He’d felt like a ghost - no matter what he did nothing could ever heal his brother. Nothing could ever make up for his silence, his cowardice, his-_

_Mycroft’s arms were around him.  
Mycroft’s body was holding him tightly, warm from the running and being in the sun. Mycroft was sturdy, safe.  
Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been shaking._

_“I’m sorry Locke.” Mycroft whispered, quiet enough to deny it as they heard footsteps on the stairs. Their parents come to check up on them. “It wasn’t him.” He said, angling his little brother’s face up to look into his reddened eyes. “It wasn’t him.”_

“It truly wasn’t.” Mycroft said, snapping Sherlock back into the present. His brother was standing at the window again, looking out into the street. “A fire escape to your flat is a terrible idea for someone with as many enemies as you.”

Sherlock went to stand with him. “Would you have told me if it was? You’re not telling me now.”

“You would know.” Mycroft lied.

“No I wouldn’t. You didn’t answer the question.” He said. Mycroft closed his eyes.

“Sometimes I think back to that day and wish I had killed him. Or that I’d died.” Sherlock looked at his brother’s hand before lifting a ceramic pot on the mantel, sliding a pack of cigarettes from under it. He offered one to Mycroft who accepted it gratefully. 

“Any criminal hoping to gain access via the fire escape would be crushed under its weight.The city wants it torn down, I hear Mrs.Hudson moaning about it.” Sherlock said, lighting a cigarette. Mycroft hummed, letting Sherlock light his as well. 

“I’m glad you didn’t die.” Sherlock said to the blackened window across the street. Mycroft froze, letting smoke fill his lungs before pushing it out into the crisp night air. He ached. He felt tired and old. 

“Of course you are.” He replied airily. “How else would you have survived all these years?” Sherlock scoffed but otherwise remained silent. The two of them smoked together, looking down at the street below.

“I wouldn’t have told you.” Mycroft said. “I wish you hadn’t seen something like that in the first place.”

“So you could die.” Sherlock said. Mycroft didn’t reply, he didn’t need to. He’d been on the brink so many times in that house. That house that no longer seemed safe, that cursed him with nightmares every night, that held no warmth in its walls for him. So many times he’d looked out a window and climbed onto the sill. So many times he’d take a bath and sink under the water. So many times he’d go into his father’s study and brush his fingers against the guns mounted to the wall. 

And then he’d think of Sherlock.  
Sherlock who’d know why instantly.  
Sherlock who’d think it was his fault.  
And Mycroft would climb down and come up for air.

“I only refuse to tell you because I know you’ll muck up whatever plans are laid down with your… _direct_ methods. This needs to be done right. It’s not just about me.” 

_It never is_ Sherlock thought. Mycroft sees him think it. 

“Fine. But you’ll catch him.” Sherlock says instead. Mycroft nods. “Fine then.”  
Sherlock ashed his cigarette on the window sill and rested his head against the wood. He decides he’ll stand there all night if Mycroft does. He remembers seeing him in the grass below the tree he’d climbed into, seeing his brother’s eyes wide and empty. He’d called Mycroft’s name and got nothing in response, just those fish eyes staring back. He looked like that now, only his eyes weren’t wide. They were heavy and tired, they wanted to shut. He’d seen that look in himself sometimes, when he’d been coming on the tail end of a dizzying high. 

“It wasn’t your fault, any of it.” Sherlock said, still looking at Mycroft and seeing the boy at the bottom of the tree. “You know that.” He wished that he had been able to put those thoughts into words then, that he had talked to his brother, that he’d climbed down from that tree and screamed for their parents to come help them. 

Mycroft took another inhale of his cigarette, watching the smoke rise and dissipate into the air. His breath came out in puffs. He was glad for the city in summertime, he wondered if he’d survive the winter here. He closed his eyes, letting the air freeze his lips to prove to himself that nothing was between them. He wished he could know the way Sherlock wanted him to know. His phone rang.

“Over the years I’ve come to understand that the first time was...some sort of lapse. A mistake that I swore would never happen again.” He let the cigarette play at burning the tips of his fingers. _It happened again._ His phone rang.

Sherlock ran his nail over the wood. “It wasn’t a mistake. Someone wanted to harm you and they succeeded.” His fingers curled into a fist. “You were a child the first time-”

“And now what am I?”  
“You’re a stubborn bastard who would rather take on all the blame in the world than admit that you _cannot_ be responsible for _everything in the fucking world!_ ” Sherlock shouted, banging his fist against the wall beside him. Mycroft looked impassively into his brother’s wild eyes before looking away as another wave of pain rolled through him. He’d need to go to the hospital soon. His phone rang.

“You can’t predict everything. You can’t blame yourself for this!” Sherlock continued.  
“You’ll disturb John.” Mycroft said mildly. His phone rang.

“I don’t care! You’re my brother, surely you know how stupid it is for you to-” Mycroft yanked his phone from his pocket and tossed it out the window hard enough to topple a garbage can across the street. Sherlock fell silent. Mycroft’s eyes stayed focused as his chest began to heave.

“Then why me.” He said quietly. “Is that what you want to hear? These theatrics? Fine. Why me? Why did this happen to me?” As he said the words out loud he could see himself on his bed thinking them, tangled up in blankets and sweating through his pajamas. _What could I have done? What did I do wrong? I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared._

“If I did nothing wrong, if there was nothing I could have done then this could happen again. It could keep happening. I tried Sherlock, do you understand? I took so many precautions. I’ve spent years-” He paused, feeling his voice splinter. He would not cry again. Not in front of Sherlock _again._

Sherlock’s hand throbbed. He wished he was better at this. Words. Comfort. He wished John were here or that he had John’s skill with being gentle, soft. _Though,_ He thought with a small grin. _Mycroft would probably detest that sort of thing._

“Anything could happen at any time. We could both be shot in the next second by snipers hiding on the roofs. We could die of cardiac arrest. The tea John made could have been poisoned-”

Mycroft scoffed. “We would detect the poison at least. Don’t just throw out fallacious examples for the sake of your point.”

Sherlock glared. “I could stab you twenty five times in the gut right now. You would be able to do nothing about it.” He turned back to look into his apartment. “We both live every day with the knowledge that we could die at any moment. That our best laid plans might blow up in our faces. People are predictable until they aren’t.” 

“I take your point.” Mycroft said, ashing his cigarette and heading for the door. Sherlock hoped that one day he would believe it. He hoped that the woman waiting for him downstairs would drag him somewhere he could get help. Until then he would eagerly await the day that the two men who’d done this to him would either be brought to justice or die in the most gruesome way imaginable. If he were being honest with himself, he vastly preferred the second option.

As soon as Mycroft stepped outside he walked across the street to a nondescript black car, waiting in front of it for the doors to open. Anthea stepped out of the back holding out a new phone which he accepted easily, scrolling to make sure all of his contacts were still listed.

“We’re bringing him in.” Anthea said, calm and no-nonsense.   
Mycroft frowned. “For what?”

“Forgery, theft, assault, blackmail, conspiracy to commit and accessory to a million other things.” She said. “He trusted his driver a bit too much. We have video evidence, audio evidence, hundreds of words against his.” 

Mycroft’s fingers froze. Video evidence. Audio evidence. He blinked.   
Anthea tapped his phone to get him to look into her eyes. They were dark and steady, familiar. 

“I highly doubt we’ll need to utilize such evidence. Again, hundreds of words.” She opened the door and slid into the backseat. As Mycroft steeled himself, leaning down to get into the car he was hit with the scent of oranges. 

He looked at Anthea questioningly. She answered without looking up from her own phone which she’d taken out of her pocket and was flying through several different conversations on. “It’s my favorite scent. I hope you don’t mind.” He knew it wasn’t. He closed the door, settling in beside her.

“No, not at all.” The car began to drive. He was tired, he wanted to go home. 

“We’re stopping by a private hospital where I imagine you’ll be able to take a shower after being examined.” She said, her clinical and detached tone was soothing. This is what was happening. There was no other option. “They need you to give a statement. It will be one of many statements listed under an alias unless on a need-to-know basis.”

“Is this because of me?” Mycroft asked, letting the scent of oranges wrap around him. His clothes smelled like smoke. He reached into a compartment and popped a mint into a mouth. Anthea handed him a comb which he ran through his hair.

“As you know, we’ve had him in our sight for years. We were going to allow him to walk with a warning but he has now forfeited that chance.” Her eyes were cold with fury when they met Mycroft’s. “Mr.Whitehall has just made the biggest mistake of his life. It has nothing to do with you.” Mycroft nodded, his last bout of energy slowly filling him. He had things to do. 

The rest of the ride was silent, the both of them falling into their work. There were calls to be made, people to direct, superiors and subordinates to inform. The car finally stopped in front of a nondescript building and Mycroft climbed out of the car, looking up at the windows and balling his hands into fists. It seemed to loom over him. This would not be easy. 

“Sir.” Anthea said, slipping something into his hand. He looked down and saw that it was his umbrella - a model of it in pristine condition. “It’s been raining off and on.” She explained, walking up to the door of the building and waiting for him. 

For the first time in hours Mycroft came fully back into himself. His body hurt, his mind was reeling, his heart was racing, he was frightened and embarrassed and so full of shame that it had settled like cement in his chest. But as he walked forward he remembered his brother who loved him so much it drove them both insane. He remembered Doctor Watson who had immediately tried to care for him, a stranger whom he had no obligations to. He remembered himself in the car and himself on the bed screaming silently for help and the men above him who only wanted to destroy him. And he saw Anthea and all of his colleagues within the building before him that would do everything in their power to bring one of those men to justice.

He gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly, nodding to Anthea who nodded back. He would fight. He would fight tooth and nail for this and he wouldn’t do it alone. Not anymore. 

He opened the door.


End file.
